


Hunger Pangs

by thecannibalofoz



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Plotless angst, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 05:44:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5773618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecannibalofoz/pseuds/thecannibalofoz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will is, much to his own dismay, yearning for Hannibal after the cliff incident. Hope you enjoy my plotless angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunger Pangs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MissDisoriental](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDisoriental/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Shape of Me Will Always be You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5367389) by [MissDisoriental](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDisoriental/pseuds/MissDisoriental). 



Coffee, bitter and black, stained the ivory of my mug. It's my third cup this morning, and the caffeine is having no discernible effect on my mood or energy levels, but I'm praying that it will soon. I haven't seemed to have any zest for life since you’ve gone; well, I was hardly a ball of joy at the best of times, looking back on it, but now sad doesn't even describe it. Sad implies an active state, tears and worries and feeling. Nothing but absence can describe me right now, as though you'd consumed me from the inside.

Hunger claws at my stomach like a little fiend, begging to be freed or sated. But I'm not going to give in to it, no. Food turns my stomach nowadays, much to your dismay I'm sure, and I could gnaw my way through the culinary delights of our collective pantry and still be as starved and sickly as I am now. The smell of the coffee is making me nauseous, although there's nothing inside me to throw up, nothing inside me that seems to matter anymore.

You're gone. I was the one who threw us over that cliff, hoping we'd both die together. I know I can't live the rest of my life, a life that isn't even half done yet, praying that you'll ever come back. Why should I be so foolish? Why should I set myself up with hope just so I can be crushed twice as hard again? Why should I waste days and months and years chewing at my lip, letting the phone ring out, not answering the door, not showering or working or living, Hannibal? And if I do hope and wish and yearn and it all pays off, will it be worth it? You're the man who has ruined my life, isolated me time and time again, and yet here I am. I don't want to want you back,I don't; but I can't control it. Not how I feel.

No body was found. You see, that's the problem here. No body. If you are dead, I think that's the most tragic thing of all. That someone like you, someone who always left your mark, who used bodies as morbidly magnificent pieces of art, just fades into the swell of the ocean. And it gives me no peace because a body is solid proof that you'll never return, reason enough for me to drop my weights and move along. Now, the space where your body should be is just empty, unfulfilled, like everything you've left in your wake. You've left me with nothing but it's still so heavy, so unbearable to drag around with me every day.

I'd hate to leave this unfinished. If our love is a tapestry it is one that's been left with loose threads hanging, filled with dropped stitches and empty spaces. Come back and kiss me or kill me, whatever. But we can't let it end like this.


End file.
